Down the Beaten Red Path
by Post object
Summary: Patrick Jane has always been in pursuit of Red John, and when they finally meet only one will survive. Story takes place several years in the future, will be told in a series of flashbacks and not in chronological order. Dark themes, rating may jump to M.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own The Mentalist or any of its characters, all belong to CBS and Bruno Heller.

* * *

I awake with my mind groggy and my head throbbing as if it will have an aneurysm. I've never felt this horrible emerging from sleep. So was I asleep? My vision slowly emerges from a blackness and my head lifts up, an awful soreness spreads through the back of my neck. As I begin to focus I am struck by the rich surroundings of a library. Books line the wooden shelves that continue to the far reaches of the high ceiling. I face a large ornate desk and chair. Behind it is a curtain that covers, what I can only assume is a window behind it. A sliver of light shines through and by the intensity of it I believe it is mid afternoon.

Trying to lift myself from the chair, my movements are hindered. For once in my life I am shocked and taken back.

My legs and arms seem to be tied with strong rope to an armchair, upholstered in red leather. The colour is unusual and as I look closer realization strikes me like a slap in the face. The rope is made of hair.

Human hair. Strawberry blond holds down my right arm. Chocolate brown holds my left.

Blood surges through my veins and tears threatened to spill over but I can't give in. That's the reaction he would want and likely relish from me.

_Seven years prior…_

_I am jolted awake by my daughter who jumps on our mattress like it's her own trampoline. I'm unsuccessful at rubbing the drowsiness from my eyes but they see hers full of mirth. My wife's head shoots up in surprise and falls back on the pillow moaning that it is too early to be up. My arm curls around her in an embrace which she gladly accepts by rolling over. _

"_But it's Christmas day! I want to see what Santa brought me! Please, please, please, get up!"_

_She loses her balance and falls on my chest knocking the wind out of me. _

"_Whoa, watch it there darling or I won't have the breath to get up. Just a few minutes more of sleep…" My right hand affectionately rubs her back, the soft curls intertwining with my fingers and I cannot remember a time I felt at such peace. _

Someone is breathing behind me; it is almost undetectable and I am fixed so rigidly in my chair it is impossible to crane my neck to see.

"Patrick Jane. Everything that has happened is a result of us meeting now. I must say that it was quite a battle of wits and you've made a fine opponent. I've always appreciated the challenge." The voice is calm, level and completely in control, I despise it because it reminds me of my own.

My reply is not without venom. "Have you brought me here to do away with me? Should I be flattered that you didn't do the honours right in my own home?"

The bastard chuckles. "Tell me Patrick, what do your astute skills of observation tell you?"

"You never kill twice in the same place."


	2. Chapter 2

Again, I do not own The Mentalist although I wouldn't mind owning Simon Baker :) Thanks for the reviews and I welcome many more. Bonus points for anyone who can guess which university Patrick attended!

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Patrick Jane arrived home that night on January 5th, 2003, with a slight bounce in his step and a smile on his face. His agent was negotiating a syndication deal for his television show, _Seeing the Other Side_, it was a massive success locally and people could not get enough of watching his ability to communicate with the "dead". The opportunity to go international wasn't just about the wide recognition he was looking forward to, but the money. If his agent was as crafty as she said she was then he would be disgustingly rich, in other words his children's children wouldn't need to work a day in their life.

That all changed when he finished reading the note on his bedroom door.

Seeing that infuriating red smiley face with a lamplight directed onto its grin changed his world in a way he would never expect. Still gripping the doorknob, to his horror he stared at the mutilated corpses of his once wife and little girl, their wrists and ankles harshly bound together. A sock was used to gage his wife, to mute the screaming.

A hoarse whisper escaped from Jane's mouth. "There is no God."

He did not dare enter the room to touch them one last time, to examine whether they were still breathing because his trained eye told him they were already gone. Stepping closer to the bed on which they lay would make it far too real. The bastard did it. Red John actually had the audacity to come after him, not the authorities or the police that had better leads on him than Jane ever did. To strike where it most hurt.

His family. His precious family.

This was a much greater punishment then killing Jane himself. No. He wanted Jane to suffer by living with the fact that he was responsible for their deaths. Teasing a lion like Red John, pretending to know who he was, just to look like a credible psychic in the public eye was more than he bargained for. Feeling bile rise in his throat he turned to vomit in the hallway and staggered into the study adjacent to the master bedroom to call the police.

"911, What's your emergency?"

"Someone has murdered my family…" The room spun like a top and losing his grasp on reality, losing his concentration, he grabbed for the console trying to maintain support of his body.

"I need…" _Steady. Breathe in. Breathe out_.

"Sir…what is your address?

"I..um." _Focus_.

"Sir, please hold on we will be there as soon as poss…"

His vision was painted black and then nothingness.

* * *

The room was silent except for the heart monitor that would sound during intervals. A man lay in a bed, his gown was patterned with squares and white sheets warmly swaddled his form. His eyes refused to open, to see the light in the hospital room instead of the darkness of his own mind.

Sterile and antiseptic. Cold and calm.

His hands would clench and unclench involuntarily and another pair of hands grasped them gently to stop the movement.

A man and a woman stood beside his bed. The woman who held his hand broke the monotonous ambience in the room. "How long has he been unconscious?"

A blue eyed man beside her replied. "The doctor said the police and paramedics found him out cold with the phone off the hook when they arrived. Apparently, he fainted and suffered a minor concussion after he saw, you know – them both dead." He hung his head low.

"Honey, he'll be okay." Was the only thing she could muster considering the circumstances.

"I know. I know Charlotte. I'm just not used to seeing my older brother in such a state and to have him go through all of this. Patrick had always been the strong, confident, successful one between the two of us. I'm worried what this will do to him. No one deserves that kind of death especially not my beautiful little niece." Running his hands through his wavy ashy brown hair he sighed.

"It's tragic." She paused. "Stephen. I was thinking on the way over here that maybe Patrick should come back with us to San Diego. It would be cruel to just leave him in that big house all alone. There are too many memories there and it's not the right time. At least if he's with us he'll have some family support and we can make sure he gets through this in a healthy way."

"I don't think that's the best idea. If we offer to take him in he'll completely take it the wrong way by twisting around our words and making it seem like we're being condescending."

"We'll look like horrible people if we don't at least offer –"

"Charlotte. I think I know my brother. I lived with him for 17 odd years, he won't accept so it's not worth trying."

"Hi Stephen. Long time no see."

The couple whipped their heads around to see that the patient which they were arguing about was completely conscious and flashing that pearly white smile.

Stephen and Charlotte both breathed a sigh of relief in combination with a look of embarrassment and wonder as to how much Patrick had heard of their conversation.

"Hey man, how are you doing?" The younger brother recovered and tried to act casual.

Patrick lost the playful demeanour in favour of an indifferent tone. "By the way, we lived together with mom and dad for about 16 years, not 17. If you recall, I was accepted into university a bit early and permanently moved to New Jersey before making my way to California. I have to say I'm not surprised that you don't know me at all. If you had asked me to stay with you and Charlotte without bringing in our past history I would have gladly accepted given that my family has just been brutally murdered. I would have liked the company during this trying and difficult time. But now that I'm aware of your true feelings I opt to forgo your _charity_."

"That's not what we meant at all. We –"

He held his hand up so she would refrain from continuing. "Please, spare me your defence of Stephen. This is between him and I."

Shifting the conversation over to himself the tall man started. "Fine. You're right on that one. The argument is between us and I think this is not the time nor the place to be acting stubborn and self-righteous."

"I'm glad to hear it. Apology accepted." Patrick answered with a smirk.

"I was talking about you!"

He gave his brother an icy glare for a few moments before they were joined by a fourth body.

"Mr. Jane, you've finally awoken." A senior doctor with frosty black hair stepped up into the group oblivious to any interruption he may have caused. Adjusting his glasses he checked the various monitors that were hooked up to Patrick.

"How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad although I've been better. I hate this feeling of light-headedness that isn't leaving."

"You're doing much better compared to when we first found you. I believe staying overnight for observation should be sufficient enough. Call the nurse if you need anything." With that the doctor was off to continue his rounds.

"Both of you should take a cue from the doctor and leave."

Charlotte touched the back of his hand as a truce, and her eyes sympathetic. "We'll be back in the morning to see you."

Standing directly behind her, Stephen cleared his throat. She half turned to her husband and enunciated, "Like. I. Said. We'll be back tomorrow." Long after they left, Patrick's pained blue eyes watched the door from which his brother had exited.

Being a minor celebrity, though a celebrity nonetheless had isolated him and it was difficult to make friends much less know who was a "real" friend. Patrick Jane lived not only a sham of a life, but lived in a phony world where image was everything and meant everything. Each person who he came in contact with wanted a piece of him and they couldn't get enough. He couldn't blame them, not everyone has the ability to "see" or "speak" to those whom have passed over. His career was trying, keeping up the façade, however the benefits far outweighed the costs. Well, they used to. Now, with his immediate family gone he didn't know whether he could go on living. His two favourite girls in the world excepted him for who he was not the image he projected on screen. Who would he share his wealth and happiness with if not with them? It just wasn't worth it anymore, none of it was.

At 6:00a.m. the next day Stephen and Charlotte received an urgent call from the hospital. They dashed over from the small motel they spent the night to visit the doctor.

Rubbing his eyes from the long night shift he spoke tiredly. "I'm afraid to say that Patrick somehow got a hold of numerous painkillers from the nurse last night. He tried to overdose by taking over 40 tablets of paracetamol. Fortunately, we were able to pump his stomach before it was too late."

The couple was attentively listening, albeit a loss for words.

"He's definitely exhibiting suicidal tendencies and needs urgent psychiatric attention."


	3. Chapter 3

I don't own The Mentalist.

* * *

My sister-in-law fiddles with the tuning on the radio until soft rock music fills the car so the occupants have an excuse not to make conversation. I sit in the back seat leaning against the door as my brother Stephen concentrates on the road and Charlotte looks out the window monitoring the street signs so she can be a "good" navigator. I periodically give directions, because if it weren't for me it would take about two hours to get to my house instead of twenty minutes. It's been a few days since (what my doctor has deemed) my suicide attempt and I'm feeling the same. The cold vice of depression has me in its grasp never loosening its hold. I stare out the window and I feel nothing, not even the warmth of the afternoon sun. I don't see why my decision to take my own life is seen as "suicide" given my circumstances. I am a rational human being who feels that I have accomplished all that I can and want so why is it so bad that I want to end it all? Why can't the choice be mine?

We make the final right turn up the narrow road and pull into the driveway. As I climb out of the vehicle my body goes on autopilot, my joints move mechanically. I tell myself it is because I made little use of them while in the hospital. Mentally I am paralyzed, afraid that if I think too deeply about recent events my sanity will completely escape, never to be found.

"Patrick, are you sure you don't want me to grab a few of your belongings while you wait out here? It's okay if you forget a few things, we can always buy them in San Diego." Charlotte talks to me like I'm a child learning English for the first time by putting emphasis on each and every syllable. It annoys me to no end but I tell myself that she only behaves this way due to her extreme discomfort with the situation.

Being present at a former crime scene.

"Don't worry about it, I'll only be a few minutes. You can relax in the living room or grab a bite to eat in the kitchen if you're hungry. There's some deli meat and cheese in the refrigerator for a sandwich." I nod to reassure them. They look wary and follow me into the house anyway but remain on the first floor as I travel up the stairs.

I enter that dreaded master bedroom of mine, grab a suitcase from the closet and begin to stuff it with clothing – mostly suits, vests, and undergarments. A few books are thrown in for good measure, in case boredom strikes on the long drive out of the city. I try to think of anything to avoid looking at that evil smile on the wall. As I exit, my hands flounder with a set of keys that I insert in the lock, listening for the double click so I know it is secure. The rest of the house be damned, but I can't have anyone enter this room during my absence. It shall be dealt with later when I have all my bearings.

Although, just being present in the room is giving me the sense that I will hyperventilate at any moment. These new feelings scare me because I've always been in control of my surroundings and myself. For once Stephen and Charlotte are right, I _need_ to get away. I check the door one last time to make sure it's locked. Conspiratorial whispering downstairs catches my attention, as if Stephen and Charlotte are self-conscious of what they are saying. They abruptly stop the conversation as the floorboards creak beneath my feet.

I compose myself as I rejoin them at the bottom of the stairs.

"I'm done here and since I don't see either of you ripping through my kitchen for something to eat I assume we're ready to go?" Without waiting for an answer, I'm half way out the door.

We've been driving for about twenty-four minutes now and the car is absolutely silent. Stephen didn't even bother turning on the radio, not that I care much for his taste in music. Something's amiss and I intend to find out. I cannot believe that my instincts did not kick in sooner, but painkillers tend to have that numbing effect, that make you blind to certain parts of your environment. I look at Charlotte in the side view mirror and find it odd that she does not act like her usual chatty self, instead her fidgety fingers repeatedly tuck hair behind her ear. Even though traffic is moving well and no one is cutting him off, my brother tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

"So, how has work been for you Steve?" I decide to pry into him using a non-threatening approach. I make eye contact with Stephen in the rear view mirror. Presently he seems to be the best bet to pull information from.

"Nothing much new in home security, although the company's been downsizing since sales have been low. It's a good thing my job's not at risk because they need people to install…"

Stephen went straight to college once he got around to finishing high school. It took him awhile to find his niche in computer technology. But when he did everyone was happy he was making himself useful. A step up from drinking and doing weed in his friend's basement. I make an audible sigh and try to look disinterested in his tirade about work, losing eye contact to fiddle with the buttons on my vest instead. He raises his eyebrows once he notices my lack of attention.

"Patrick, is something wrong?"

"Now why would you think anything is wrong?" Rhetorical questions are the best at breeding unusual answers and right now I'm anticipating Stephen's. He pauses making his hesitation apparent.

"Maybe because you tried to kill yourself not too long ago? Maybe because your family is gone and no longer with you?" He softens his voice offering me sympathy.

"Honey, please. We don't need to go into this right now." I glance at Charlotte who chides him, obviously upset. Her brow is furrowed and gives her husband a knowing look as if they've discussed this issue at length.

But it is exactly what I need to spur me on. "Interesting choice of words. My family is no longer with me." I roll the words off my tongue like they are candies. "Although, I think of both you and Charlotte as my family so are you guys implying that _you're_ no longer with me?"

"Stop playing games. That's not what I meant and you know it." The timbre of Stephen's voice rises with every sentence.

"Hey, no need to get defensive bro. It was a simple question that you seem to be very riled up about."

"I can't help but feel insulted by your insinuations. I swear to God – if mom were here she would see right through your bullshit and put you in your place." Hardening his demeanour his crystalline eyes flash.

"Mom has nothing to do with this and by bringing her up it shows that you're desperate to change the subject. Answer me. Where are we going?" We come off the ramp but the car's speed barely slows down.

"Why should I tell you huh? You're acting like the biggest prick in the world."

My hair stands straight on the back of my neck, a sure sign that there's trouble ahead.

"Stephen! What the hell are you doing? We decided before that the issue would be discussed calmly once we've reached there."

I'm getting evermore agitated that no one is coming out with it. With my head cloudy lately I haven't been my usual self so my skills naturally are not up to par. The view out the window is distracting because of the familiar scenery whipping by and panic strikes. I'm fairly calm and collected but a sinking feeling hits in the pit of my stomach. I recognize these buildings.

The hospital goes by in a blur.

Then we pass the university campus further down.

That could only mean…at the end of the street…the psychiatric hospital!

"You people could have at least the decency to tell me!" I scream and since we are only minutes away I try the doors but they're locked. Stephen realizes the gig is up and plows down the street.

Even though I know it's futile, I pound on the windows with my fists trying to break the glass. We've already pulled up the driveway to the sixties style building. A huge cement eyesore amidst the well-manicured landscape. Stephen and Charlotte quickly escape the car as soon as it's in park. And just like clockwork my door is opened by two orderlies who quickly try to sedate my wild thrashing and kicking.

My family has betrayed me by arranging all of this ahead of time. Committing me so they may absolve themselves from taking care of the widower brother. Am I really that far gone that they would completely turn their backs on me? Even sympathetic Charlotte who regards me with pity every time she's in my presence?

My body feels like it's swimming in air and my legs are made of jelly. Resisting my own passivity does nothing to help me stand, to walk, to run. They cart me off through a maze of corridors, the walls bleached with white. I see patients peer at me curiously. I have become an exhibit, a freakshow.

Maybe Stephen does know me afterall. He knew I would never voluntarily commit myself to an institution. Predicting how I would react, he refused to say anything ahead of time. He drove me all this way in silence and prepared to ensure the butterfly net goes over my head.

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Please review so I can decide whether I should continue this story or not!


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